


The Good Knight

by volant1s



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, possible canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volant1s/pseuds/volant1s
Summary: After the Great War, mystery surrounded the Lady of Winterfell and her long-time companion with the golden sword.Small moments between Sansa Stark and Podrick Payne, a squire finding his purpose. Begins after Arya's arrival at Winterfell and contains possible canon divergence post-season 7.





	1. At the Service of Clever Folk

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why Sansa x Podrick are my Game of Thrones OTP but they are.

Who else is on your list? 

Arya shared her tales over dinner, at first quiet and smug about her travels, her talents, her intentions. Sansa bristled as her sister cut hard into meat, remembering the catspaw dagger slicing through the cold winter air during her and Brienne’s duel, wondering who Arya could kill and how she might’ve killed before. A swift stab to the belly, perhaps? A long swipe across a throat? 

“Cersei,” Arya monotonously said into her food, clearly in a place entirely different to the hall of Winterfell, where their strange new clan- Brienne and Podrick closest at their table besides other members of Winterfell’s guard- ate supper. “The Mountain. Ilyn Payne-“

At this, Podrick trembled to Sansa’s left. These days, she felt safest between the lady knight and the squire; in an instant, both went tense at the mention of the Payne household. Discreetly, Sansa patted Podrick’s hand, placing three of her gloved fingers over his cold ones. He glanced her way, thin-lipped still but thankful in his soft gaze. 

Arya took no notice of this as she ate, and under her breath, Sansa murmured to her companions, “He took our father’s head”, as if this phrase could explain the complicated history of the Starks or the calculation in Arya’s voice, the determination in her words.

Interrupting the younger Stark sister midway through her list, Brienne asked, “Why the Red Woman? The Priestess?”

Arya’s eyes shone with deep fury; not a childish anger from their younger days but a hot and driven rage. 

“She took my friend away”. 

Silence settled over the foursome despite Podrick’s chewing and Arya, suddenly idle in the aftermath, shifted to point her attention anywhere but inward. 

“I am sure we all have lists of men and women who have caused chaos and took away those we loved,” she said gently, her fork pressing less vengefully into the stew. Sansa saw Brienne lower her food out of the corner of her eye. 

“I have my duty in this world and my oaths to keep,” Brienne spoke sharply. “I believe we seek justice but never slaughter.” Not wishing to discuss the distinction between justice and vengeance, Arya turned her focus to Podrick questioningly. 

“And you…?”

“Podrick,” he cleared. Clearing his throat, the squire played with his meal before saying, “I do not enjoy killing. I do not wish to do it.” His brown eyes met Sansa’s once more, suddenly holding onto something heavier than hunger. 

“You are training for knighthood, are you not?” Sansa peered at him curiously. He mustered an answer. 

“I wish to serve those who are true, my’lady, not to bring an end those who are cruel. I kill to defend and to save, but no more,” he seemed uncomfortable speaking before the three women and Sansa suddenly recalled his quiet presence beside Lord Tyrion back in King’s Landing. A silent squire. Always watching. 

“There are none who are true without some acts of evil,” Arya spoke in a more contemplative voice than her recent razor-like tone. “And you would also know the necessity of eliminating those who are beyond redemption, if you had seen what I have seen.” Her grey Stark eyes rose to Sansa’s. “You have endured too, my sister. Anyone you would like to add to the list?” 

For that moment, Sansa thanked the Gods Littlefinger had stayed in his chambers for supper, as his name bit the inside of her cheek like a tart pie. Faces flashed in her mind, from an image of Cerise’s smug grin to the Mountain’s hulking frame to Ramsay’s skin, bitten off his face- 

“If Jon speaks truly, the dead will come take care of our lists for us,” she said grimly. Unsatisfied with this answer clearly, Arya finished her food in silence until the hush prompted an unusual conversation. 

“Lady Brienne, I understand you met my friend, Hot Pie?” 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The balconies of Winterfell’s courtyard allowed Sansa the perfect respite, as she could participate in everything and nothing all at once. She took a rest from the menial work of organizing soldier movements from the Vale to Winterfell and instead watched Brienne train Pod, as they did everyday with the same results. Tonight, they trained by torchlight, and while Podrick seemed to fall less into the muck, he did shiver in the cold Northern winds. 

Brienne’s heavy armor sheltered her from snow and wind gusts, while Podrick’s crumbling red attire flapped in the frozen breeze. An unexpected impulse overtook Sansa as she stood in the shadows, stony faced and wrapped in her wolf’s cloak; she whisked to the lower kitchens, emerging into the courtyard with two hot vessels of soup, leftover from the previous night. Podrick started at the vision of her approaching their sparring session, as if a bird has fallen from the stormy clouds. 

It did feel bizarre to engage, rather than observe from afar, Sansa acknowledged. As she had learned in the Vale, solitude high above was cold but uncomplicated…and secure. 

“T-t-thank you, my’lady,” Podrick took the soup quickly, trembling in his gratitude. Brienne allowed a small smile. 

“In a real fight, Pod, a kind woman would not bring you soup,” the Maid of Tarth tapped his side with the flat part of her sword, ignoring Sansa’s offer of warm food. Podrick attempted to stand taller and give back his cup. 

“Please come inside, it is too cold for the both of you tonight,” Sansa refused his hand. “A man should not have to worry about dying from the frozen North when training; and as Lady of Winterfell, I should protect all within the castle, especially those who have saved me from the cold.” She spoke firmly, trying to embody her mother in her powerful tone, though the memory brought her sadness. 

“I must train my’lady, cold or not, or I will never f-f-fight properly,” Podrick argued into his broth and Sansa stepped closer to him, feeling his cheek quickly before pulling away. Brienne’s brows furrowed. 

“You are frozen.” 

“We have all been through worse, my’lady,” he said earnestly and Sansa felt the cold of the river wash up her legs, the endless white of the forest calm against the wails of Ramsay’s dogs…

“Still,” she sternly gazed at the pair. “Inside. For tonight.” 

“As my lady wishes,” Brienne conceded before pointing at her squire, “but tomorrow at dawn, we are practicing your footwork for twice as long, understood?” The squire frantically nodded and started to follow his lady knight inside before Sansa called to him. 

“Podrick, could you assist me please, before the midnight guard changes?” she said softly and registered his surprise only for a moment, as she turned towards the stairs to her chambers, the squire’s heavy footfall behind her. Within her room- Mother and Father’s room, Arya’s voice chided- Sansa half-expected to find Petyr there, as she had before, grinning in his eerie manner before breaking into a plan to cajole Sweet Robin out of more supplies. 

Luckily, it was empty and the Lady and the squire stepped inside, the heavy door closing them in. A servant had lit a fire and Sansa led Podrick before it, hoping the hearth would not only warm him but shed light on his face. His expressions were often hard to read and for the moment, she needed to understand this quiet, brave man. He gazed at her expectantly, if not nervously. She imagined he felt uncomfortable in the Lady of Winterfell’s chambers; as a man of principles, a quality Brienne had sworn of her squire, Podrick would expect that a late-night encounter with the Lady of the North would seem disgraceful to those outside the door, and intimate to those within. 

But in the firelight, as Sansa rested on a chair opposite his, her furs suddenly feeling oversized for her frame and her hair too intricate, she no longer was the Lady of Winterfell but a young girl. Arya had come back a steely, trained woman. Bran had returned an untouchable being, both within and without their world. Her younger siblings had aged past her and in a moment, she felt too raw to have control of anything. Her veil of power, while something that made her feel safe, disintegrated before the squire, in the hush of night. 

“I ask you, Podrick: what do you think of Arya?” Sansa finally spoke into room, breaking the sound of sizzling embers. “I ask you because I am not sure of who else to ask”. Her honesty seemed genuine to the squire, who rubbed his hands together slowly before his lady; light from the hearth flickered In the moment, alighting his face as he thought. As he did not answer immediately, Sansa continued to speak, rapidly weighing this potential blunder. 

“I know it must seem odd to you, as you do not know us very well, but any other advisors would only speak from Northern loyalty and honor,” she said quickly. Littlefinger would say whatever he thought I wanted to hear. “And Brienne seems to admire her already-“ 

“I admire her as well,” Podrick finally said, and Sansa felt an unexplainable pang in her chest she hated. Petty girl, she thought. Petty, petty stupid girl. 

“Oh. Well, that is good,” Sansa exhaled quietly and turned away from the fire. The real question rose in her throat, unavoidable, lurking. 

She looked at him strongly, almost achingly and he looked back, uncertain. “What I meant to ask,” a breath, “…are you afraid of her?” 

“Yes,” Podrick said with a hint of a smile, and Sansa could have laughed at his painless response to her inner torment. Realizing the perhaps inelegance and callousness of the remark, he opened his mouth to continue but she interrupted. 

“I ask because you have seen the men and women of King’s Landing as I have, plotting and conniving and acting false throughout the entirety of their lives. You have seen who is dangerous and who can be trusted; Tyrion taught you as much, I assume,” Sansa only registered these thoughts are they left her mind, suddenly recognizing how much Podrick could have seen in the South, how his youth mirrored hers. At the service of cleverer folk, slowly absorbing the lies and the betrayal. Though some said he was an idiot boy sent to serve Lord Tyrion as a punishment, even Shae had commented on his senselessness. 

But, as she saw in her chambers in Winterfell in the dark of night, the man before her was not a boy nor a simpleton; Sansa wondered if he had survived only by being underestimated. As she had. 

The winds howled outside, and Sansa wondered for a moment if Bran had come back from the Godswood, if he left his visions to join the world of flesh and blood, away from the cold. Having a similar thought, Podrick shivered before her, and he also shed his veils, however transparent they may be. 

He cleared his throat, a man still ruminating. “Your sister is powerful. She could hold her own with Lady Brienne, as we all saw. An impressive feat. And when she looks at me…” his voice trailed off. 

“What?” 

“It seems as if she can know what I am thinking,” he confessed and shifted on his stool. A cold, familiar shudder went through Sansa. “I do think she is dangerous, but not to us- you,” Podrick corrected, mouth toying with whichever word was less intrusive. 

Sansa exhaled, feeling both reassured and concerned. Arya was a skilled killer but perhaps to their benefit. It seemed all a bit too much. Wasn’t this supposed to be home?

“I think she is lucky to have you, my’lady,” Pod piped up and Sansa started as his voice shifted from honesty to a more animated tone. “What I mean is- well- I mean, you are her sister. And you have made her a home to come back to. She would not have been able to return if not for you.” 

“And Jon,” Sansa added, but he shook his head. 

“Excuse me, my’lady, but King Jon isn’t here,” he leaned forward slightly, without seemingly to realize his proximity to the Lady of Winterfell. The expression on his round face was plain but sweet. “You are.” 

Sansa felt warmth flood her chest, a feeling she could not explain and did want to understand. It made her want to snap something at the squire and tell him to leave. She did not want to thank him. But she also knew if she argued with him, he would not change his mind. She changed the subject. 

“Well…I often wonder how people like us are still here,” she moved forward slightly. “Those of us who do not fight like trained warriors or spies.” 

“I do not know either, but I am thankful,” Podrick clasped his hands together, his eyes downturned and lips moving like he wanted to say more. Instead, he stood promptly, uneasy. “May I help you with anything else, my’lady?” Startled, Sansa rose as well. The firelight danced on the stones of the walls. She felt the faint, ghostly gaze of her family watch her step closer to the squire. Pod regarded her with an emotion she could not start to consider or reciprocate: vulnerability. She tried to ignore his flushed cheeks when she placed on hand on his arm. 

“I am sorry to bother you tonight, Podrick. Thank you for attending to me.” Her choice of words seemed inappropriate and they both stepped away, the squire going to the door before turning around to face his Lady. 

Podrick swallowed. “If you need to ask anymore questions, my’lady…I will be here,” he spoke hesitantly, clearly trying to express a different idea, a different devotion. 

“Goodnight Podrick,” she whispered and he fled. Podrick Payne was not a deceitful man, Sansa thought before resting on her bed and beginning to undo the braids in her hair. She hoped that the eyes watching her door, whether Littlefinger’s or her sister’s, did not misinterpret her guest’s visit. 

Perhaps the night had been a terrible mistake. She wondered why she felt lighter. A wolf cried in the night.


	2. The North Will Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is hard to not write a cheesy story for these two because they are sweet. Podrick Payne deserves so much love.

There were very few men that Podrick Payne disliked as much as Lord Petyr Baelish. 

In his small training ground behind the stables, where Pod would practice offensive maneuvering alone, he tried imagining the older man’s grin to provoke a harder swing, a faster side step. 

_Lord Twatbeard._ Pod remembered Bronn’s nickname for Littlefinger and chuckled to himself. 

Lady Brienne had recently explained the importance of mental fortitude as well as strength. “If you are fighting for you life, your opponent mustn’t seem a man or woman…but a shadow. A shade of an enemy who taunts you and inspires rage.”

Pod knew little of rage. Frustration and hopelessness, yes. But fear of failing his lord or lady, fear of abandonment, wouldn’t inspire genuine strength in a fight. He thought of the Baratheon words memorized in his youth: Ours is the Fury. A house of great warriors inspired by passion. 

House Payne had no such reputation. 

As he stepped back into starting form and lifted his sparring sword, Pod recalled one moment where anger cut into his throat like a dagger. It had been as Jon Snow read out Ramsay Bolton’s warning letter, in the somber and musty hall of Castle Black. 

_You will watch as I skin them living, you will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. Come and see._ He remembered bristling at those words as he did whenever confronted with the thoughts of wicked men; in particular, wicked men who hurt Lady Sansa. 

He hated the way Baelish slunk behind her through the corridors like a parasite, his cloak trailing and catching mud from the ground. Their eyes only met when Podrick’s gaze would linger too long on the Lady of Winterfell, and Littlefinger’s sleazy look would force him to turn away. 

He hated the way the Lord of the Vale entered her chambers at night with hungry eyes; the cruder smiths had joked that Baelish was aiding his Lady Sansa in more ways than one. This implication turned Pod’s neck red, as he whirled on the chortling fellows with a glare. After spending many hours with the lesser born men in castle, Pod wished Lady Brienne would hear such lewd comments and smack them hard with a sparring club. 

Unfortunately, Brienne noticed very little since their return from Riverrun. Her activities revolved around guarding Lady Sansa, overseeing weapon production and, after Arya’s return, sparring playfully with the young Stark girl. As his feet caught on a tree root and he crumpled to the ground, Podrick thought again that he was grateful for Brienne’s unobservant eye. 

Had she been paying attention, she might’ve realized her squire was perilously smitten.

He hadn’t loved Sansa since their time in King’s Landing, as she had been his lord’s wife. While she would make his heart jump every time they shared a room, her beauty was sad; he hadn’t _wanted_ to love her then, only protect her. Lord Tyrion treated her with kindness and chivalry, Pod knew, but clearly, beneath her expensive robes and high-up hair, she was desperately unhappy. Then, for however short a time, Podrick thought her to be Joffrey’s killer, imagining her delicate hands pouring poison into the King’s cup. “Sansa’s no assassin,” Tyrion had decided but Pod’s stomach turned at the thought of her laughing gleefully as she ran from the capital, leaving Joffrey’s yellowed corpse behind.

Once he and Brienne had rescued her from the vicious teeth of the Boltons, something new had grown in him, something forgotten.

Sansa was a girl as he was a boy, damaged but strong. He remembered when she had laid beside the fire he’d built, two days from their arrival at Castle Black. She was curled upon herself like a pocket of snow slowing melting into the ground, as he attempted to cook a frozen rabbit. It was the first time they’d been alone; Brienne was scouting the surrounding area before nightfall. 

“I know you.” 

Podrick didn’t raise his head. His hands became clumsy blocks of wood, unsure whether even to smile or nod into the bleak twilight. 

He focused on skinning their meal. “Yes, my’lady. I was…Lord Tyrion’s s-ssquire.” 

_What else to say?_ That he had been at her wedding to his former Lord? That he thought of her in the dark of night, when his stomach hurt from hunger and his toes froze? Or perhaps that he had before encouraged Lady Brienne to abandon her protective vows? That seemed the worse confession of all. 

Sansa was quiet; for most of the time since her escape, she seemed to forget her voice, instead closing her eyes and mouth and retreating into herself. Podrick thought she might ask about the fate of his former lord or about his tenure with Brienne. Instead, she surprised him with banality.

“You mustn’t like the cold up here.” 

“No, my’lady.” 

He liked to think they had smiled together then, but he would never know. 

During those nights before reaching the Wall, Podrick slept by her side just as Lady Brienne did; he always tried to lay facing her back, for in her sleep, Sansa’s face contorted painfully, her body silently screaming. He looked at whatever stars were visible through the clouds and ignored her shaking silhouette, tried to erase his desire to pull her into his arms. While she never spoke of what had happened to her at Winterfell, the bruises on her arms and neck said enough to make him grimace with anger. 

Suddenly, she seemed everywhere; a maiden galloping past on a horse, a ghost with a swinging chain. He thought of Sansa in Riverrun, and tried to picture her with a toothy smile, thus far an imaginary thing. In Pod’s sleep, she watched him fight monsters, her red braid swinging as she leapt into his arms. Sometimes she fought beside him, wielding Lord Tyrion’s axe from the Blackwater. Foolish dreams to be sure.

But they had interacted twice more since she’d pulled him into her room to inquire about Arya, moments in passing that caused his heart to warm as if forged in a fire. Podrick had been commissioned to carry more scrolls from the Winterfell records, when Brienne wanted a moment alone and could not think of a better task for him. He observed Lady Sansa pouring over the papers, a true woman of the castle, and almost pulled her small hand to his lips in a kiss. 

Too bold.

Instead, she’d bowed her head at him, and silence passed between them like a tossed stone. 

And in the previous dawn, while carrying wood, Pod encountered Lady Sansa returning from the Godswood. She seemed oddly peaceful in the morning hours and an urge overtook him as the pitiful sun emerged overhead. 

“Isn’t it early, my’ady?” 

She smirked and pulled her cloak tighter around her; the fur on her shoulders puffed up like birds’ wings outstretched. “When you cannot sleep, it is always too early.” Lady Sansa regarded him up and down; Podrick felt his chest push outward unconsciously. They were an odd pair in the forever snow. He had looked at her long, flaming locks instead of into her eyes for courage.

“You should rest, my’lady. The castle is well prepared,” he had wanted to say for many days, as she often observed on the Winterfell work with somber eyes. 

Sansa exhaled into the wind. “If it is not, Jon says we will die.” The harshness of her words did not seem pointed towards him, and her cheeks flushed as if revealing a secret. Her cloaks hung heavily as she excused herself and pushed past him back towards the castle; Podrick watched his lady return all the way to the entrance, where Littlefinger’s omnipresent silhouette stood waiting. 

_Lord Twatbeard._ This pushed away the memory and Podrick pivoted to stab upward, grunting. The quiet of the northern forrest echoed around him. 

_Presume everyone wants to hit you. Because they do, Pod, everyone wants to hit a fookin’ squire._

Hard, angry footsteps approached behind Podrick, and he turned to face, not Bronn, but Lady Brienne, a white vision of pale cheeks and blonde hair.

“My lady?”

“We ride for King’s Landing at first light: prepare only the necessary saddlebags after supper.” 

Podrick stared at her. “King’s Landing?”

Brienne sighed, too exhausted to sharpen her voice in response. “Lady Sansa has sent me to stand in her place at a meeting of Lords in the capital. She does not wish to attend.” Her hand swatted away a delicate falling snowflake. “And she claims she does not need protection.” 

His words tumbled out uncharacteristically quickly. “But my’lady-y— if you go, who will- perhaps I could-”

Brienne’s eyes softened. “She does not want you to stay either.” 

He focused bitterly on the sound of their feet returning to their chambers so not to bite his lip so hard it bled.

And so Podrick couldn’t sleep that night before riding south, sitting instead in his bunk, picking at his boots. He waited until he could wait no longer and rushed to the Godswood, expecting the Lady of Winterfell to emerge. He knew a knight would not ambush a lady returning from prayer, but he did not care.

“Lady Sansa!” He flew to her side, pulse pounding. She looked beautiful and tired in the light. 

“Podrick?”

“My’lady, please allow me to stay to protect you,” Pod said, out of breath, glimpsing up at her tall frame. She’d grown since he first met her but she didn’t scare him yet, and his dreams of love propelled him forward.  


Sansa was taken aback. “Would Lady Brienne not need your assistance on the long journey south?” 

“I believe your need of a loyal guard exceeds Lady Brienne’s need for a squire,” he said with the greatest confidence he could muster. 

“Then do you not want to see Lord Tyrion again? I thought you’d be pleased,” she responded, and Pod’s strength began to fade, crestfallen. _A southern squire should not expect to be wanted in Winterfell_.

“Yes, my’lady, I want to see my lord, but-“ 

“It would be like returning home, no?” she said in a small voice. 

“No, my’lady,” he swallowed. “The Westerlands, the capital…they are not home any longer.” 

His unspoken suggestion dangled in the warm air between them, and finally, she stepped forward to grip his arm. 

“Then the North will wait for you to return,” Lady Sansa murmured cautiously. Before rushing away, the girl turned on her heel. 

“Do return before winter overtakes the roads, Ser Podrick. This castle is in need of good men.“ 

It wasn’t until Greywater Watch that Brienne noticed her squire, quieter than usual, had left his cherished battle axe in the frozen North.


	3. Oathkeeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos!!! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> I decided to extend this story to see both Sansa and Podrick's perspectives. The next chapter will contain more moments between them, while this is more of a setup for the endgame. All hail the Hound.

Nearly three moons after their return to Winterfell, Lady Brienne died in the arms of her loyal squire and the Kingslayer. 

The Great War arrived more quickly than anyone expected, and they were nowhere near ready, though King Jon and the Dragon Queen saw to the rapid production of dragon glass weapons. Lady Sansa ensured that the people of the North found their way to Winterfell and Wintertown for protection, with hundreds of archers soon ready on all battlements and mounted guards watching over livestock. Winter was darker than Podrick dreamed, a deep blackness that suffocated and disheartened. He could count on one hand the number of times he managed to smile in those weeks, from moments of sharing mead with Bronn and Lord Tyrion, to watching the wilding woman’s baby Sam walk upright for the first time in the stables. 

He cherished those moments when he was chosen to guard Lady Sansa’s chambers; twice she invited him inside in the middle of her sleeping hour (few knew what was day or night anymore) and he soon had the bravery to sit close to her in reassurance, their feet touching. Mostly she patched his rotting shoes, and they clung together in their anxiety, bristling at the loud wind and finding life in each other’s words. They would teach each other songs as they listened to the hammering of the smiths in the armory, creating weapons for every living soul within the castle walls. 

But that did not stop the army of the dead. 

Soon wights had surrounded Winterfell and passed it, careening south. When Jon and Daenerys flew off on their dragons to face the Night King, the survivors knew deep in their hearts that this was the fight to be had, the day to live or to die. Many friends had died already, and Podrick tried to maintain his composure through the myriad of burials. He could not have prepared himself for the death of his lady from Tarth. 

It came after their small band emerged out of the overrun castle by way of the underground tunnels; the towers of Winterfell were being torn down by a hoard of wights, a terrifying mass of bones and disintegrated flesh. Arya was howling words at the scene of destruction left behind them until Gentry threw her over his shoulder and ran. Their only hope was to hide or fight, and the latter seemed most likely due to their group of warriors, save for Lady Sansa and the crippled boy, Bran. Lord Tyrion had led a troupe of Lannister men to the perimeter before the castle had fallen and the Bear Knight, Jorah, had guided Northern children to a hidden safe place beyond the woods.

The rest of the men and women were left to fend for themselves against monsters. 

Podrick could hardly remember the names of all his comrades, fighters from Northern castles or foreign friends from the Dragon Queen’s camp, but knew their faces as they were struck down by wights. He stood cold in the gaping mouth of the tunnel, feeling Lady Sansa breathe heavily between him and the Hound. Her hand found his in the gloom for only a moment before the ungodly wail of an ice dragon fractured their small group, figures running off in all directions with Bran Stark’s haunting voice croaking, “the Godswood.”

Jaime called out. While he had wanted to lead his Lannister army to battle, Jon instead ordered the commander protect the Stark family above all else. “BRIENNE and PODRICK with me! Clegane lead the girls behind us, stay in formation until-“ 

Movement broke apart his cry as wights overtook the group, and Podrick swung madly, screaming WINTERFELL as he plunged his sword into invisible bodies. Grabbing a torch in a moment of freedom, the squire followed his friends into the woods. Hisses of the dead and the dying battered his ears. The forest outside the castle was almost pitch black, save for the fire in his hand. Podrick scrambled against trees and rocks, almost crawling in the snow, following the sound of Brienne’s armor as she ran. He didn’t understand the events of that hour save for the blur of blades and wights gnashing teeth, until he found Brienne again and it was too late. 

The giantess lay in Lannister’s arms, her blond hair now red from blood. The Kingslayer saw nothing except for his dying lady, and the pair seemed safe from the dangers around them. She was trembling in pain but her demise seemed surreal; _she’s a warrior. She’ll survive this as she always has,_ Podrick thought. He fell onto his hands and knees beside her, gripping at her tattered armor. 

“I managed to get them off her…she never stopped fighting,” Jaime whispered, and Podrick suddenly noticed the scattered wight limbs nearby. His heart pulsed in his throat with barely contained grief. 

Lady Brienne looked up at her squire, eyes not truly seeing. _Was she still there?_

The ice dragon flew overhead, and they were lost in its shadow for a moment. 

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Pod gasped. His insides felt as if they were collapsing and his chest hurt as if stabbed with a hot knife. Her response was two-fold: a long, sorrowful blink and a raised finger, pointing past Pod to the snow. 

He turned in confusion. 

“Her sword,” Lannister said as he cradled Lady Brienne. “She wants you to take it.” 

“I can’t-“ 

“ _Podrick,_ ” Brienne managed to croak in such a stern tone that he might’ve laughed. It was all so familiar and yet all too tragic and unbelievable for Podrick’s mind to process in that small clearing under an ancient tree. 

Before he could argue more, the snow crackled under Lady Brienne’s slumped body, her strength fading. Lannister held her tighter, not looking up at the squire as he said, “Go back and find the Stark girls. They’ll need you.” Jaime’s eyes were wet. “I just…need to stay a bit longer.” 

Then he was speaking softly to the dying woman, and Podrick felt angry, angry at everything, and ill as well. He carried the heavy weight of Oathkeeper in his hand and the weights that were his feet as they sped away from the intimate scene. 

After an endless dark, Podrick stepped into another open space, where the body of Sandor Clegane and a decapitated wight lay together. In a flash, Lady Sansa emerged from her crouch in a tree hollow and leapt towards Pod. He grabbed at her and trapped her in his arms, full of tenderness. His tears mixed with the wet snow in her hair. They were both soaked, cold, throbbing, but warmth grew and all he could feel was her, all he could smell and touch. Both sobbed into the other.

Podrick had dropped the sword in his haste. He ached to cling to her forever, standing in a patch of dirty snow, daring to place his nose in the crook of her neck. She pulled away after a long while, face weepy and smacked with redness. 

“Oathkeeper,” she breathed, staring at their feet, and a whimper of acknowledgment swept through her. Afraid she might faint, Pod wrapped an arm under her, picking her up in a clumsy movement. Grabbing the Valyrian sword, he carried his lady through the forest, listening for sounds of life amidst the roar of dragons and the groan of the burning wood. His body felt as if it were a walking corpse, not unlike the soulless shells they were fighting. While the strain in his legs managed to keep him upright, it was Sansa’s hot hand on his cheek that drove him forward to some unknown place.

Podrick collapsed at the entrance to the tunnels, where bodies lay piled but two survivors- _Ser Davos? Perhaps Gendry?_ \- ran out to meet him and the Lady of Winterfell. The world swirled into infinity. 

_Dying like this would suffice_ , the squire thought in his dulling mind. _I could return to Lady Brienne her sword_. 

He felt a flash of bright crimson fall upon him and cover his body from the black dragon blood suddenly raining from the sky. Screams echoed all around, but Sansa’s forehead pressed to his and she was whispering soft things at him but everything was too hot and loud and he breathed in her sweetness.

Before losing all consciousness and falling into a deep pit, Podrick saw again the corpse of Sandor Clegane, and the Hound’s voice rang in his memory from their first (and decidedly last) conversation. 

_Honor, no honor._

Winterfell had been under siege for days, and the tension caused cries in the night, whispers by day. In the stables, Clegane approached him from behind, announcing his presence with a snarl. “Looking for your mum, boy?” 

Pod turned quickly, feeling like prey contemplated before an attack. “Not my mum. I’m her squire,” he said defensively.

“SQUIRE, ah,” the Hound spat and rubbed his hands together in the freezing wind. “Still wantin' to be a knight, lad? Won’t be any kings or septons or tourneys or shit knights left when this is over.” 

Podrick flushed, unsure of himself. Clegane towered over him, and the squire looked up, seeing charred skin rippling in the light of the torches. His eyes were angry and hopeless and Podrick knew the Hound was right.

“What will there be, when the war is over?” Pod finally answered.

“Don’t know, lad. Don’t think I’ll see it, whatever it is.” The Hound noticed Pod’s speechlessness this time. “Now boy, no need for shock or pity. I’ve been brought back for a purpose, and it doesn't last beyond the army of the dead. What’s your purpose then, squire?” 

“To protect.” 

“Protect who?” The Hound squinted and looked into the distance, grinding his teeth. “Lady Brienne? She doesn’t need you. Lannister? The Imp isn't long for this world either I expect.” 

“Our Little Bird perhaps?” 

Podrick stared at his feet; he knew his face would give him away. He’d heard the Hound call Lady Sansa that during their time at King’s Landing; sometimes she’d look upon Clegane with a smile that made Podrick’s stomach turn. A moment passed before the Hound scoffed in understanding and laughed harshly. 

“Ay yes, Little Bird. That’d be it. Sounds about right that you’d want her, you young cunt boy, wantin’ that pretty pinkness, her small red head. Thinking you can keep her from this cruel world and be her savior. An honorable white knight. A bit late. HA!“ The Hound took a drink of the flask attached to his hip and suddenly seemed old, too old for his years. “We don’t deserve her. Neither of us.”

A low rumble passed in the wind as dragons flew overhead, on a daily scouting mission; Clegane crouched slightly, afraid of their beastly bellies, full of fire. Podrick felt his words mounting with passion. _You can’t have her, dog. She’s gentler than you could even begin to realize. She’s much more than you've seen._

“I would die for her,” the squire said.

The Hound’s face had been grim, and Podrick Payne would remember that look for the rest of his days. “Don’t worry, lad. I’m sure we will.”


	4. Her Good Knight

Sansa knew her duty lay in welcoming back the injured survivors and the bodies of the deceased, assigning them shelter and distributing food. But, as she told them, she could not leave the side of her sleeping sister. Understandably. What was less explicable to others was her devotion to the squire, Podrick Payne.

Her hand ran over his obsessively, and the healers didn't not question their lady, whose hair had been cut sharply to undo its matted state. Whose appearance now resembled a ghost in an oversized fur cloak. 

Podrick’s cheeks flushed occasionally when hot blankets covered his body, but his eyes had not opened since the last day of the fight. Sansa wandered among the beds of the wounded and saw gashes black with infection, filled with maggots, yet none scared her as much of the stillness of her Podrick. 

He seemed made of stone, Arya remarked when she finally recovered from her broken leg, now spattered with the faint teethmarks of wights. The Stark sisters stood at the end of Podrick’s bed for a long while. 

“He seemed a good man,” Arya professed solemnly, “and Father would’ve liked him.” Her sister’s head snapped up.

“He’s not gone yet.” 

This phrase was repeated again and again in the sick ward of Winterfell and more often than not, the man or woman in question indeed did _go_ , joining the pile of bodies on the outskirts of the Godswood. The rites of the dead had become increasingly complicated, said the new Maester Tarly, as many were not of the North and frowned upon the old practices. A wave of nausea overtook Sansa as she contemplated how Podrick might want to be buried. Might _have_ to be buried. 

Mourning was everywhere; mourning for the children who’d frozen in their beds, mourning for the ancient stones of Winterfell, mourning for the heroes like Brienne of Tarth, Sandor Clegane. 

Sansa dreamt of those lost in the battle and, despite the defeat of the enemy, awoke every day to fingers of cold dread wrapped around her neck. When she slept at Podrick’s beside, she shivered at the thought of his awakening, his first breath asking about Lady Brienne. Arya and her friend, the southern smith- who Sansa would sometimes mistake for Podrick from afar- held her whenever she found the energy to cry, but never understood her commitment to this young, quiet, rather ordinary squire. And she did not feel prepared to explain herself, to explain the lunacy of finding love before a hopeless war with a stupidly brave boy. 

She still had her brothers and Arya, the siblings clinging to each other in their broken ancestral castle. Sansa knew she should not wish for anything further than this small band of kin in the aftermath of the chaos; they were Starks and they were home and they were alive. They had faced the dead and monsters (human or otherwise) to make it through. These thoughts echoed in their conversations, and Sansa managed to smile during their family dinners, pushing away thoughts of Podrick’s paralyzed form. 

But by the fourth day, she left the destroyed walls of her castle to release a raven herself, which carried a message to Tyrion in King’s Landing about the death of his precious former squire. It no longer seemed pre-emptive, as Podrick’s body was bone chillingly cold and refused to react to her touch. His tongue had turned white, and while movement occasionally flickered under his eyelids, she couldn’t feel his blood pulsing as she gripped the softness of his hand. 

Before Sansa could clumsily release the raven from the crook of her arm, a labored cry rang out from behind a broken archway. Sam Tarly’s words warmed her chest before she saw him. 

“My’lady…he’s awake.” 

 

Weeks later, when they lay together in her chambers, she told him that the first look he’d given her upon rousing was enough to break her heart. Podrick laughed at this, tracing a line down her back, and brushing red hair from her eyes. 

Neither could explain how they fell in bed together after his recovery, and they might still argue it was innocent enough, all kisses and snug warmth more than hot desire. Sansa had no intention of opening herself up that way yet, and Podrick asked none of it, only to hold her when the sunlight dimmed. Even the most cynical of folk could see the simple way they went together, as two souls lucky to be alive and reveling in the present. Of course, Sansa didn’t deny that it could become something more, something far deeper and feverish than survivors’ companionship. She saw it Pod’s eyes too, before they finally fell into separate but equally tormented sleep. 

The aftermath of the war was just disorderly enough that many questions went unasked, and issues of duty and reputation fell to the wayside. Honoring the dead took precedent; supporting the living came after. Those who survived came together in selfish, happy ways. Proud Lannisters hunted alongside the Crannogmen Reeds; Essosi priests and Dothraki laid with Mormont women. The last men of the Night’s Watch drank and feasted with the lot of them. The Lady of Winterfell made no attempts to restructure this new life festering within her castle. 

Eventually, as Dawn awoke, so did Westerosi society and some habit returned. Or so Podrick Payne claimed that evening, when he stood by her bedside, refusing to join her for the night. 

“What does it matter what they say?” Sansa asked.

She ran her fingers in the fur bedding, embarrassment clutching at her heart. _  
Desire and love never seemed to get her far in the old world, why had she expected any different?_

Pod paced slowly across the stones of her chamber, boots clacking. He was dressed in a mixture of Northern attire and southern leathers; he had explained his tunic honored Ser Bronn, who’d given his life outside of Hornwood protecting Lord Tyrion. With a smirk, Sansa replied that she preferred his new fur cloak to the southern chiton, as she’d sewn him this one herself. It contained a pattern resembling the Payne shield now in Stark colors: gray and white, rather than purple and yellow. 

Pod held up the cloak as evidence in the argument. “I may feel a Northerner but your men only see a Payne.” His tone remained restrained despite his clenched fists. “And Sansa…” 

He stooped in front of her bed, keeping noticeable distance except for a hand on her exposed ankle. She shivered at the contact, meeting his pained eyes. “You are our new warden in the North. A lady. Deserving far better than a squire.”

She scowled at him bitterly. “Do not be ridiculous. I don’t deserve anything in particular.” _Nothing more than a good man, who would not hurt me or use me._

“Not deserve, then. Your…position requires more. You could marry again for alliances and help restore order to the realm,” his words were clearly well thought-out, pre-decided, but tinged with sadness. 

Sansa flinched suddenly. “You believe I should marry again without love?” 

At her last word, Pod’s hand on her ankle tightened, running up along the calf to her knee to draw circles there with his thumb. He stared at the motion, as if it meant something. As if it spelled out something he couldn’t say. “It would be your duty.” 

Sansa kicked him away as she stood, hovering over him in her night robes, feeling exposed. Her heart pounded and a forgotten anger flowed through her veins, turning her spit to venom, her words to daggers. “Duty died with the Seven Kingdoms and the Wall and our families, Podrick. With Lady Brienne.” He recoiled at this. “If you do not wish to live in this new world, then get out.” 

She watched him go through hot, red eyes. It felt as if everything they’d started to make together was now rotting, like the corpses in the fields. Before the door closed, Sansa couldn’t resist calling out, with a voice from her past self and with a question unbecoming of the Lady of Winterfell. “Would you truly curse me to that life again, Podrick? Without adventure, to be fucked by an old man with a castle in fancy robes? Don’t I deserve a man who loves me, not the North?” 

He barely answered her. “I wish I could give you both.” 

This was the first night Sansa learned Winterfell couldn’t stay their survivors’ haven forever. The fragile coalition soon broke up as refugees returned to whatever was left of their old lands. 

Four moons after the death of the Night King, she watched them leave from her position on the battlements. Arya’s small, muddied horse led the way and disappeared beyond the treetops, leaving a path of trampled grass in her wake. The snow had only just began to melt, and the Spring brought splashes of color to the surface. Arya Stark became a speck in the distance, off to explore the world. 

She hadn’t expected Arya to stay in a castle forever. _No, of course not; not when the sun shone on the land to unveil new mysteries. Her sister was untamed, like Nymeria. A she-wolf,_ Sansa sighed to herself. 

A solemn procession followed Arya, riders leading a group of peasants, smiths, and fallen warriors. The group hailed south to town at the Neck and beyond, as far as the Sapphire Isle in the Narrow Sea. Sansa swallowed upon eyeing the shield of Tarth wrapped around a large cart holding the body of Lady Brienne. Lannister men were accompanying her home, upon their Lord’s request. Sansa couldn’t help but smile at the eclectic mix of banners. Gold lions, red knives, blue stars- all houses united for the coming season. 

A noise behind her on the battlements. “Sansa.” 

She swallowed and turned to face Podrick Payne, his feet planted just behind her. “I thought you might have left with the others.” 

“She would’ve wanted me to stay,” he replied softly, looking past the Lady of Winterfell to watch the mourning party crossing over ageless mountains, into the promise of the far off southern green. 

Sansa’s mouth felt dry. She took a stride forward, an unsteady step. “What do you want, Podrick?” She bit back a string of questions, pressing them deep into her belly, hidden under her gown, like a stoic lady should do. Her back arched to the pressure of her queries, _what would you do if you left? Where would you go? How could you leave me alone here in this broken place?_

Wind whistled between them, and Podrick blushed, glancing down at Oathkeeper sheathed at his hip. It seemed to glow in the morning light, and he placed his hand over the handle, as if it were an anchor. “I would like to serve you, m’lady,” he whispered. “Whatever that means. Even if I couldn’t be with you. I would stay to keep you safe until you told me…” 

“Told you to leave?” Sansa frowned, and the warmth between them seemed to drop, only until she took a final step forward and placed her gloved hand over his. They held Oathkeeper together on the battlements, and Podrick’s eyes flickered. “So if I let you go,” she breathed, “you would stay anyway?” 

For the first time in a very long time, Pod’s answer came without hesitation. “Always.” 

They flew together in a moment, a heartbeat, and Sansa could’ve sworn her insides melted to dust, then grew back again like the grass rising from the newly unfrozen earth. His lips were smooth but his hands hard, hands of man. _Not a squire boy any longer._

There were no words as he bent down before her gowns, drawing Oathkeeper and laying it at her feet. His words resonated from their kiss, and she kept one of his hands in hers, all the while blinking through a smile. Like from a dream, he recited his vow; this one seeming less a knightly oath and more a tender promise. 

“Lady Sansa. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours…I swear it, by the gods…old and new…” 

And so it was.

The bards later told stories of the heroes who fought for the dawn, their names lost to time. The Maiden of Tarth. The deep love between the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen. Fewer tales were sung about those left when it was all over, to rebuild the world left in ruins. 

In the South, they sang of the Crowned Smith, who fought his enemy with a war hammer and united the Storm Lands. 

In the Iron Islands, all knew of a steward, returned in the shape of the Drowned God, who came back from death harder and stronger. 

In the North, the bards sang stories of the Lady of Winterfell, cold and beautiful. Beside her, one story told of a true knight who never was knighted, who kept his oaths. At weddings, if all felt in good cheer, they would chant a song of devotion for the couple’s prosperity against the dangers of the world. 

They sang of the Lady of Winterfell, and of her love, the Good Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the wait! This is horribly sappy, but it is the ending these two characters deserve. Hope you all enjoyed and comment if you have any other Sansa/Pod fic ideas!


End file.
